Soul's ballast, treasures of life's hand, Sink! and we'll wreck together down. Pale on the pillow of the sand I'll rest me well at evening brown.
But, now, a woman, as I gaze, Sits in the bridge's darker nook, A woman, who doth sweetly raise Her eyes to mine in one long look.
'T is Sympathy with outstretched arms, Who smileth to me through the gray Of dusk with all her thousand charms. Hail, azure eyes! Green sea, away!
The sea-gulls restless gleam and glance. The mad white coursers cleave the length Of Ocean as they rear and prance And toss their manes in stormy strength.
How I love you in the robes That disrobe so well your charms! Your dear breasts, twin ivory globes, And your bare sweet pagan arms.
Frail as frailest wing of bee, Fresher than the heart of rose, All the fabric delicate, free, Round your body gleams and glows,
Till from skin to silken thread, Silver shivers lightly win, And the rosy gown have shed Roses on the creamy skin.
Whence have you the mystic thing, Made of very flesh of you, Living mesh to mix and cling With your glorious body's hue?
Did you take it from the rud Of the dawn? From Venus' shell? From a breast-flower nigh to bud? From a rose about to swell?
Doth the texture have its dye From some blushing bashfulness? No--your portraits do not lie-- Beauty beauty's form shall guess!
Down you cast your garment fair, Art-dreamed, sweet Reality, Like Borghese's princess, rare For Canova's mastery!
Ah! the folds are lips of fire Sweeping round your lovely form In a folly of desire, With a weft of kisses warm!
Ah, little one, the world's malicious! With mocking smiles thy beauty greeting. It says that in thy breast capricious A watch, and not a heart, is beating.
Yet like the sea thy breast is swelling With all the wild, tumultuous power A tide of blood sends pulsing, welling, Beneath thy flesh in life's young hour.
Ah, little one, the world is spiteful! It says thy vivid eyes are fooling, And that they have their charm delightful From faithful, diplomatic schooling.
Yet on thy lashes' shifting curtain An iridescent tear-drop trembles, Like dew unbidden and uncertain, That no well-water's gleam resembles.
Ah, little one, the world reviles thee! It says thou hast no spirit's favour, That verse, which seemingly beguiles thee, Hath unto thee a Sanskrit savour.